The San Joaquin has never been a picturesque country and it offers no invitation to the casual tourist. The traveler's foot invariably forces the throttle toward the floorboard and a sense of relief comes with the first glimpse of mountains to mark the end of it. The Valley's beauty cannot be seen from a racing automobile or the cold interior of an air-conditioned building. It moves in a slow rhythm, almost imperceptibly in the shift of seasons, a beauty held in the stillness of a long-sinking sun across an ocean of cotton or the drifting of tule fog through a winter vineyard. The Valley communicates a sorrow and an exaltation only to those who give themselves over to its harsh embrace. participate in its slow moving, to those who have spent long hours laboring in its fields or in the sweltering heat of its packing sheds and gins. Men and women who have lain awake without sheet or blanket through its summer nights can understand the simple gift of a breeze across the cooling acres and the murmuring push of water through the deep canals.